It's Thursday, just 48 hours since the raid, and I still can’t shake the fear. My hands tremble at the mere thought of her—her beauty, her vibrant red hair. Wait, no. She nearly killed me, no matter how she beautiful she looked... man I have never thought about messing with a women but god damn, ‘Gugu.’ What’s that sound? Oh right, I got lost in thought again, now facing the consequences of her actions. Here I am, sitting with Ms. Lane for the second day in a row.

  “Where are you drifting to?” Mrs. Lane asks, her voice pulling me back.

  I push my lower lip out, feeling my shoulders inch toward a shrug. What can I say? I’ve messed up just as things began to look up. Pretty will head back to that man; the hope I felt lasted less than half a day, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  Mrs. Lane sets her pen and notebook aside, “Alright, no more notes. You don’t have to say anything. We can talk about the weather if you like.”

  That catches me off guard, “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope. There’s a cold front coming, apparently.” she explains.

  “So?”

  “Just making conversation.” She pauses, “Mind if I ask you something?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “If I cleared you and gave you the letter to prove it, what would you do?” Mrs Lane asked.

  Should I punch this woman? No, relax. It’s a test or some reverse psychology trick, “I’d leave and go straight to the base to get my badge.”

  “Why?” Mrs. Lane asks, leaning forward.

  I knew she’d ask that, “Because I want to be an ARMS agent.”

  “And what about Mandy?” She adjusts her seating position, her gaze unwavering.

  “What about her?”

  “You nearly killed her. No reprimand or charges of assault.” Mrs. Lane points out..

  None of you have any idea how dangerous she is, “Why is that a terrible thing?”

  “Because if Mandy were human, you’d be in jail. One moment, and all your hopes and dreams would be gone.” she replies.

  “But I’m going to save lives, and she’s not dead, so no harm, no foul.” I explain, but she looks at me, assessing my words. Then she pulls a letter from her notebook and slides it across the table.

  “Here. This clears you. With this letter, you can become an agent on a temporary basis, and by the end of the year, you’ll be certified.” Mrs Lane explained.

  I pick it up, skimming the words, the reality sinking in. I could leave, but the words she spoke still echo in my mind: “SAY HER NAME!” I can’t move.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  I sit there, frozen, unable to respond.

  “You have what you wanted. Why are you still here?” Mrs. Lane presses.

  Summoning all my strength, I manage to whisper, “This letter was written yesterday… Why?”

  “Because that’s what you wanted,” she replies simply.

  “Well, yeah.” Murmuring is all I can muster.

  “Then why are you still here?” she asks again.

  Tears burn in my eyes. “So that you can tell me I’m not a monster.” I set the letter back down on the table.

  “Don’t get hung up on terms like ‘monster’ or ‘evil.’ These concepts are subjective, which is why actions are judged by intentions. What made you pull the trigger?” she asks.

  I was trapped in a timeless dimension, “I felt like a mouse that a cat had by it's tail.” She told me I did well against her human. “She was toying with me, and I accepted it was a question of how I’d die, not if. But then I thought of my best friends, my boyfriend—all trapped in that same building.” She placed her hand on Penelope’s chest, “I wasn’t going to let her take them too. I don’t remember every detail, but I do remember feeling her fall and just… shooting her.” And asked how much pressure it would take to crush her heart. “I know my actions were brutal, but the image of their dead bodies in my mind kept me going.”

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  She told I know you that you thought about this ever since the crucifixion. “Do I regret it? No. Do I wish there was another way? Absolutely.” How do I reply to someone who can read my mind? And how many powers does she have? “The raid was nothing like training. It was real, and it showed me that out there, in the real world…” You met overpowered people who can kill you with the flick of the wrist, “Things aren’t controlled. I don’t know if I’m cut out to be an agent.”

  “But you signed the contract.” Mrs. Lane pointed out.

  “Yeah, that was before the raid.” Before meeting that overpowered smoke demon.

  “It’s good that you can be honest about ARMS. If you feel this way, why do you still want to be an agent?” she asks.

  “I have to.” Hopefully, I don’t run into her or anything even close to her level of power because if I do fuck this shit I quit, “I need to save someone I love.”

  "And what about your mental health?" Mrs. Lane asked.

  Acceptance of the fact that running is not cowardness, "I’m shaken by what happened, but there are other roles in ARMS—important ones where I wouldn’t have to fight."

  "That’s it?" she pressed.

  "Yeah." My answer felt small and inadequate, but that what happens when you fight above your weight class.

  "Gugu, being an agent shouldn’t be for anyone else. It should be because you want it." Mrs. Lane said softly.

  "It’s not that simple."

  "Why not?" Mrs Lane asked.

  I hesitated. "I can’t tell you her name, but… her father abuses her. Physically. Every time I tend to her wounds, it brings up things I don’t want to think about." The command echoed in my mind: ‘SAY HER NAME!’

  "Why?" Mrs. Lane asked gently.

  "Because I don’t want to remember." Her voice thundered in my head: ‘I SAID SAY HER NAME OR ELSE EVERYONE DIES!’

  "And when these memories come up, what do you think of?" she continued.

  "Someone I hurt." The weight of shame settled heavily on my chest.

  "Who?" Mrs Lane asked.

  "My first best friend." Irma.

  "Tell me about her." Mrs. Lane encouraged.

  I took a deep breath, recalling that first encounter. "I come from a military family. Every year, there’s a big gathering, and when I was five is when her. She was incredible. I was a shy kid, always keeping to myself. That year wasn’t any different. I barely said hello to anyone before heading outside.

  “Yo, what are you doing?” a female voice asked.

  I looked up at a girl in overalls with a ponytail, brown eyes, and coffee-colored skin. She wore braces, “Just sitting.”

  She grinned and pointed at the sky. “Look up.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me. Come lay down and look up.” Her tone was playful, not demanding. Reluctantly, I moved to lay beside her. “Not sure what I’m looking at.”

  “Wait for it,” she said, lying next to me.

  “Wait for wha— Oh, wow.” Wonder filled my voice.

  “Right? It’s like you can reach out and touch the sky,” she said. Then she turned to me, “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Gugu. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Irma.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you have a best friend?”

  “No.”

  “I’m your best friend now.” Irma stretched out on her back.

  "Just like that?"

  "Yep." she said with a grin.

  From that day forward, Irma and I spent every moment possible together—exploring, laughing, sharing our hopes, dreams, and fears. She was sunshine in my life, always bringing warmth and joy, even in my darkest moments. Years later, we found ourselves in central Africa for training, continuing our adventure together—wandering bustling streets, taking boat rides down the river. Every moment felt special with Irma by my side.

  One highlight was a floating restaurant built above the river. We’d just arrived at one of the city’s tourist hotspots when something unexpected happened.

  "This place is beautiful." I remarked.

  "Yeah." Irma agreed, but her attention was already on the menu.

  "Are they going to follow us the whole time?" I nodded toward the guards assigned to us.

  "Just pretend they aren’t here. That’s what I do." she said without looking up.

  "It’s suffocating."

  "They’re just doing their job. We’re in a new city, and we haven’t even started our training yet. It’s for our safety." Irma explained.

  "Okay, oh my God!"

  "What?" she asked, curious.

  "Your celebrity crush just walked in."

  "Are you serious?" Her eyes lit up.

  "Yes."

  "Where is he, my future baby daddy?" she asked.

  "Over there." I pointed, noticing a guy heading out of the restaurant.

  Irma wasted no time. She stood up and rushed over to him, tapping him on the back. When he turned around, she froze.

  "Nothing." she muttered, walking back to the table, where I was barely holding back laughter.

  "That wasn’t funny." she said, sitting down.

  "You should’ve seen the look on your face! Your eyes were sparkling like a princess!"

  "That man looks nothing like Q." she said, still annoyed.

  "I think they’re identical. And look at his girlfriend."

  "Look at that man—he’s ugly, and he ain’t nobody’s boyfriend." she said, visibly annoyed.

  "Okay, but Q’s married."

  "There’s something called divorce. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. And enough about my future husband—how do you feel about starting training tomorrow?" Irma asked, changing the subject.

  I sighed, gazing out at the river. "I get it, the whole ‘carrying on the family tradition’ thing. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss home."

  Irma said softly, "But we’ve got each other."

  "Yeah, I’m glad you’re here. Today has definitely put me at ease."

  "I’m glad I could help." Irma smiled, raising her water glass, "Toast to the next 20 years?"

  "To the next 20 years," I said, lifting my glass to meet hers.